


Rituals

by Neon_Monkeys



Series: Anarchy [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Aged up Finn Shelby, Cannibalism, Gen, London, Post-World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neon_Monkeys/pseuds/Neon_Monkeys
Summary: There is always a beginning so why don’t we start with a morning routine.
Series: Anarchy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852915
Kudos: 2





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Sometime in the fall of 1919. Nearly a full year since World War one ended.  
> Finn is 19. I have shifted his birthday from 1908 to 1900. Everyone else is canon age.  
> John is 24, Ada is 26, Tommy is 29, Arthur is 32.

5 things. 

His feet were bare. His bed linens were grey. His floors were wood. His walls were bare and off white. He was wearing no shirt and the ink of his once tattoos pushed out of his skin. 

His bed rattled as he moved. He heard the commotion of the comings and goings below. He heard the creak of wood from his neighbours. There was the splash of trodden puddles. The dirt roads gravelled against the rubber of tires.

He tried to ignore the smells of his world but the potency of London was too much. The gasoline and smog amongst the relatively clear oxygen air. He accepted it and breathed in deep. He was back to his reality. The thankful reality where he owns everything around him. His own bed, his own apartment (although rented), his own books. His reality where the chains only exist in his mind. 

His legs pushed himself up to his feet and he crossed the room to his window without conscious thought. He looked down to see the sun had begun to rise but many were walking about. 

He flipped open his small pocket watch on his bedside table which read, 7:16, before making his way to the bathroom. The man in the mirror is young and clean shaven. At the age of 19 however it only need be another day or two before he’d need to shave again. His eyes were bloodshot from sleep and his loose curls lay thick with youth against his head. They’d need to be cut soon. He already struggled to fit in amongst the neighbourhood as was the common side effect of his profession. 

He turned around and opened the taps to pour himself a bath in his cast iron tub. He placed a towel on the ground before putting one in reach on top of the shut toilet lid. He stripped before turning off the taps and stepping inside. He stumbled slightly with the slick of the water but managed to sit down with relative ease. He watched ink float to the surface of the water before clasping the bar of soap and scrubbing his body. He was taut with muscle but thin despite his non human diet.

For that’s what he was, non human. A ghoul, he had discovered many years ago. He hadn’t met many even here amongst the dense population of London. They seem to be much more highly populated in Asian countries like Japan. He has enhanced senses, he was strong and fast quite unlike regular men and he had an organ weapon called a Kagune which sprouted from his lower back. All good things but however to survive he had to eat humans. He had grown used to it and now he even craved it but he hunted the bare minimum to keep his anonymity. It saved much he supposed, money wise. He wasn’t floating in it but his lack of need for food definitely kept his shop afloat, especially now since the war has just ended. 

His skin now plain and clean he lifted himself out the tub before cleaning up the bathroom. His home may not be the epitome of clean and perfect but he liked it tidy. He clothed himself in his bedroom that was across the hall from the bathroom. He wore belted slacks and an off white button up. He carried his socks, vest and brown straight jacket to his kitchen. He had grown again, his pants hung a bit too tight against his body. He flung his clothes over his kitchen chair.

He pulled a small tray out of his icebox and took the last fingers from the tray before laying it in the sink to clean later. He sighed as he laid the rest of meat onto a different try before heating hit in his oven. He finished dressing and made himself coffee while he waited for his meal to finish cooking. The oily smell of the City overpowered any smell of cooking flesh. He didn’t use an oven mitt to remove the tray from the oven for he didn’t own one. He let the glass burn his skin. He ate straight from the pan and as he ate he healed. He washed his dishes in the sink with his shirt rolled to his elbows. 

When he finished in the kitchen he returned to his bathroom. He brushed his teeth, smoothed his hair and vowed to chop the ends that evening. He sat on his bed and pulled his shoes onto his sock clad feet and made his way to the front door. He unrolled his sleeves and put on his jacket, his coat useless and unnecessary in the not cold but not warm weather of fall and left his home for work. He jingled his keys into his pocket after locking the door and made his way down stairs and then he walked his way through the streets of London to work. 

He lived in a fairly non trafficked area of London but as the war ended the number of homeless and unemployed had risen. It would be kind of him to hire someone to do the numbers for him or even another artist but hasn’t the money. He’s just thankful he is no longer amongst them. 

His business is small but fulfilling. It covers its own costs and he has yet to go to the bank for loans and he continues to hope that he never will have too. He fingers his keys out of his pocket and opens the doors to Finn’s Tattoo Parlour.

**Author's Note:**

> I have eight more chapters. They will be posted weekly.


End file.
